


The Days Thereafter

by EarendilEldar



Series: Days of the First Age [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Bad Decisions, Brother, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Canonical Character Death, Doom of Mandos, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Oath of Fëanor, Poor Maedhros, Regret, Sins of the Father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:43:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22343485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarendilEldar/pseuds/EarendilEldar
Summary: Follow-on to "One Day...".  Maedhros is left to go on, if he can, after the Nirnaeth, but nothing will ever go well while the Doom of Mandos remains.Part 1 - Nirnaeth to Marriage of Earendil and ElwingPart 2 - The Unfulfilled Oath to Destruction of BeleriandCan be read as prequel to "Many Meetings".
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: Days of the First Age [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608358
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

“He _won’t_ move!” Maglor cried. “What can we do? We cannot leave him unguarded!”

“Eru,” Caranthir breathed impatiently. “He won’t move? We move him!” Caranthir stalked toward Maedhros who knelt in the mud and reached to grasp his arm.

Before he could touch his brother, Maedhros had his sword drawn and pointed at Caranthir, though his eyes never left Fingon’s ruined hröa. 

“I told you,” Maglor said lowly. 

“We have to get off this field or we all end up like that,” Celegorm argued.

“Maybe leaving him would be a mercy,” Amrod said.

“Well it wouldn’t be for us,” Maglor spat. “All we can do is guard them….”

“What? Until he dies of grief? What’s the difference?” Curufin shouted.

“You know very well the difference. And I don’t think his grief will take him, yet. They weren’t joined” Maglor said.

“Then what in the name of Mandos are we doing here?” Caranthir roared.

“Guarding them!” Maglor growled.

* * *

The light of the longest day of the year was failing fast by the time the sons of Fëanor and their remaining forces cleared the field. The Dwarven host of Azaghål provided cover until they could get away and Azaghål himself had bowed in sympathy when Maedhros finally rose with his face stained as red as his hair and walked away from the battle, hewing enemies as he walked even as it looked as if he couldn’t possibly be seeing anything around him. The Fëanorions fled to the elm forests of Ossiriand where no orcs or dragons or Balrogs reached. 

It was 23 years after that day before a word left Maedhros’s lips. When they had the ill tidings of the sack of Nargothrond, Maedhros had asked, “What of Telperinquar?” Upon hearing that his nephew had escaped the slaughter, he promptly went back to his utter silence until word came of the presence of the silmaril in Menegroth.

Even then, Maedhros said very little on the matter while Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir argued with Maglor about the reclaiming of their father’s jewel. Amrod’s only input was that he would decide his course once the rest of them had come to an agreement. 

“Elwë is killed and his queen left these shores,” Caranthir said. “And with her power gone, their realm is no longer protected. We wouldn’t even need a sizeable force to walk in and take the jewel from them.”

“You know as well as I do that Doriath is in no way unprotected,” Maglor rejoined. “Even with the power of Melian removed, they will be defended. You recall that their daughter stood against two of the Powers, do you not? Think you we are a match for -”

“We are a match for greater than that -” Celegorm growled.

“Not _one_ word from you on that matter,” Maedhros warned hotly. “Not ever.”

“Oh, my brother _can_ speak. Well, at least that’s one faculty you’ve regained,” Celegorm said snidely.

“Don’t test him,” Curufin said quietly, “lest you lose a hand, too. And we shall need your bowmanship, for Makalaurë is correct. They will be defended, especially after Elwë’s murder.”

“What reason have we to think that this Lady Lúthien yet lives, or that she would have returned to Doriath after the caves were ransacked?”Caranthir asked. 

Celegorm crossed his arms and glanced at Caranthir before glaring broodingly in Maedhros’s direction. 

“Of course you know of their movements, so just speak, brother,” Caranthir said impatiently.

“Do not remove your bracers, though,” Curufin snickered.

Celegorm rolled his eyes but spoke. “Her atan Lord returned to their home in the Adurant after routing a company of Casari at a ford on the Gelion. It was their son and his wife and three children who returned to Doriath. I suspect that not only are his parents no longer living, but that they had that jewel since the atan returned. It would not have been left in Menegroth, it most assuredly would have been taken by the Casari – and so the atan must have taken it in turn from them in the course of the battle. Now, if the guardians and warriors of these Sindar are incapable of protecting and defending first their King, then their home and riches from a pack of _Naugrim_ , why should the Sons of Fëanor require a sizeable force?”

“The sons of Fëanor shall not use force unless it is used _against_ us first,” Maedhros said firmly.

Maglor nodded his support and said, “We should send an envoy and request the return of the jewel. If our envoy is refused, then we go to sue in person.”

“With steel,” Caranthir added.

“Still you desire war and death?” Maedhros seethed, “After all we’ve lost?”

“After all _you’ve_ lost, you mean,” Curufin said. 

“I should have thought the loss of a son’s love and fealty greater even than what I’ve endured,” Maedhros said sharply.

“I have no son,” Curufin responded.

“Then perhaps he will escape the wretched curse to which you unjustly bound him,” Maedhros said.

“How can you say such a thing?” Maglor said, staring at Curufin in disbelief. “Telpe is your flesh and blood!”

“No, he is not, not any longer. He is an unnatural, faithless churl and I will never again give him my name,” Curufin said coldly.

“Perhaps you ought not disclaim him entirely, brother,” Celegorm said. “You know, if anything ever befalls Turukáno, to whom shall the Kingship fall? And, well, with your son having been as _thoroughly_ devoted to the Lord of Nargothrond as he was… perhaps our birthright will return to us in a roundabout way?”

Curufin looked at Celegorm for a long moment, contemplating the possibility, but Caranthir just laughed. “Well, at last there is something He Who Speaks with the Birds does not know!” 

Celegorm frowned, which only made Caranthir smile all the more. “Orodreth did not share our nephew’s inclinations. In fact, he was wed to a very fair lady by all accounts. And they had a son, one who was not present when the caves were sacked, nor yet when first we lost the north to rivers of fire. It is said he was sent away, hidden, to dwell in some coastal harbour from which he could be spirited away to safer climes upon a ship any time the Enemy grew too near.”

“The three of you may cease this scheming at once. The matter is decided. We send an envoy. Laurë will handle it,” Maedhros said, then rose and walked away without another word.

After a few moments of being badgered by the other three about making a strong enough statement to Menegroth, Maglor decided to follow Maedhros’s example and walk away from the discussion entirely. He rather wished he’d stayed with his quarrelsome brothers when he found Maedhros sitting beside a stream in the moonlight, his head bowed low. 

One thing that Maglor had noted in the days after Fingon brought Maedhros back to them was that Maedhros had never once wept. There had been night terrors too numerous to count and Maedhros could go from grim and haunted to blazing like a fire within a moment, but never had he wept. Since the Nirnaeth, though, it seemed to Maglor that every time Maedhros was alone, he was overcome with sadness. 

Maglor’s heart was torn for all of them and he feared so what lay ahead, for it did not seem that the Doom of Mandos was nearly done with Fëanor’s line yet. Not knowing what else to do, Maglor did as he always did – fetched his harp and played until he had nearly lulled himself to sleep.

* * *

The envoy was, of course, sent back without reply. And so, Maedhros assented that he and his brothers should appeal personally to King Dior. He was firm that they should bring only a small host each, no more than needed for the journey, but Celegorm, Caranthir, and Curufin all claimed that their ‘essential’ host happened to be a party of their finest warriors. Maedhros was little pleased with their insistence upon a show of strength and reminded them yet that they were not on a war mission. Amrod choose to remain in their encampment to manage things while his brothers were away. 

Nothing went right from the time they set out. They had intended to arrive in Doriath before the Mid-winter festival, that they shouldn’t have to return in deepest winter, but delays on the road meant they did not arrive until several weeks after the celebrations and weather already was growing harsh. 

The path they took to the Thousand Caves seemed deserted and unguarded which made Maedhros suspicious and all the more watchful. When they came to the gates of Menegroth, Maedhros asked that they be lead before the King of the Sindar. They were not halfway to the great hall when the fighting broke out. Caranthir had taken exception with the guard who walked beside him and drew his sword. Within moments, they were all engaged. Maedhros knew then that there was no chance of their errand ending well but had no choice other than to fight back.

Before all was done, the King and Queen of Doriath and an uncounted number of their people were slain – but for a young girl and a dark-haired, sharp-eyed Elf who Maedhros had seen slipping into a dark, narrow passage but chose not to pursue. Only later had he learned that the child was the daughter of Dior and Nimloth, and that she was bearing the Silmaril they had come to reclaim. 

Finally, Maedhros came upon Maglor in a corridor, leaning heavily on a cave wall and grasping his arm as if injured. 

“No sign of the jewel, Russo,” Maglor said in a strained voice.

“You’re hurt. Come, we’ll find a healer… somewhere,” Maedhros said.

“It’ll be alright,” Maglor murmured, shaking his head. “I don’t think there’s anything for healers to do here…. Carnistir fell,” Maglor whispered.

Maedhros shut his eyes tightly and clenched his jaw. “Tyelko. And Curvo defending him,” he grated out. 

Maglor said nothing, but reached out for Maedhros and the two of them stood for a long while, clutching one another tightly. When they finally returned to the main hall, none of their men had found anything of the jewel of Fëanor, but one soldier of Celegorm’s host approached Maedhros, kneeling and begging his forgiveness.

“This is not your fault,” Maedhros said wearily, hating that they’d only yet again lead more of their people into a terrible, bloody affray for no gain at all.

“My lord, I beg your pardon, but… I could not do it, I could not carry out my lord’s order!” cried the soldier.

Maedhros’s first inclination was simply to tell the soldier that he was absolved of whatever he thought he’d failed in and dismiss him, but something stopped him. “Of what do you speak? What order?” Maedhros asked, half afraid to know what Celegorm had ordered that this Elf could not obey and looked stricken even to recall.

The Elf before him looked away, unable to meet Maedhros’s eyes, and said, “We were ordered to take the young princes. They were to be left deep in the wood, where they would not find their way…. I could not bear it and fled back….”

Maedhros stared for the longest time, hoping someone would say something to disprove this claim, but none did. 

“Oh, Eru, no…,” Maglor breathed beside Maedhros. 

“How could there be _such_ evil in my own blood?! Where were they taken, do you know?” Maedhros asked urgently.

The soldier shook his head without raising it. “No, I do not,” he whispered. “They were going to the north and east, but that is all I know.”

Maedhros held back a growl and turned away. “Laurë, stay here, find a healer and get that arm seen to. I’m going to see if I can find these children. They will not survive out there alone in this weather. If I cannot find them before it’s too late, may Manwë himself stay my hand if Nämo ever sends Tyelkormo back into my sight!” 

It was three weeks before Maedhros and the party he’d taken with him returned. Maglor and those who had remained in Menegroth had searched every crack and crevice and not found the Silmaril. Maedhros had searched every tree and tuft and not found Dior’s sons. Maedhros was hardly to be consoled, blaming himself for permitting Celegorm to come in the first place, knowing the hatred he’d held against Dior’s parents. 

As they travelled wearily back to Ossiriand, Maglor couldn’t fail to notice that his brother’s mood was looking lower than he’d ever seen. Even when Maedhros was insensate, emaciated, scarred, and mutilated, Maglor could still recognize the spark of an old fire deep inside. Even during those years of grief and self-imposed muteness, Maglor knew that Maedhros’s fëa still burned. Now Maedhros looked as though he’d all but given up. 

Too many times Maglor would find his brother sitting by whatever river or stream they’d camped by, murmuring things like, “I’m sorry for everything,” “I wish I’d listened to you,” and “I don’t know if I can ever be forgiven.” He’d started to fear for Maedhros’s wits until he came upon him on a night of a full moon and saw the shine of a gold ribbon that Maedhros was rhythmically threading between his fingers as he spoke lowly to one who was not present. Then his heart broke for his brother all over again and he quietly backed away, too saddened even to pick up his harp that night.

* * *

The years went by and Maedhros, Maglor, and Amrod dwelt together with the remnant of their people as best they could. Maedhros had gone largely mute again, rarely speaking to anyone but his brothers. Maedhros’s silence only grew deeper after hearing that Gondolin was fallen and Turgon killed. 

It wasn’t long after that that Amrod had picked up word that the Silmaril of Doriath was known to be in the keeping of Dior’s daughter, who had escaped to the haven at Sirion, as had those who had escaped Gondolin. When Amrod brought this news to his brothers, he and Maglor both feared that the decision of what to do about it would fall to them, that Maedhros would only go on saying nothing and betraying no reaction. 

Instead, Maedhros shook his head and said, “What are we to do? Assail these few survivors, just as weary as are we, yet again? No. There is not a day since we arrived on these shores that I have not regretted my haste to support our father’s madness in that damnable oath. Let it rest. We have work enough surviving for ourselves and blood enough on our hands. I care less today about recovering that monstrous creation than I ever did. Leave it with them. Let it drive them to madness for all I care.”

Amrod wasn’t at all certain that approach would work for long, but he had no interest in debating it. Maglor was relieved that there would be no fighting but also quietly concerned that turning their backs on the oath they’d sworn freely would have terrible consequences. 

At least one positive consequence of Maedhros’s decision seemed to be that he began to come out of his long despair a bit. He still wasn’t exactly cheerful by any description, but he was no longer quite so unspeaking and distant. Sometimes Maglor thought that maybe a celebration of some sort would further encourage Maedhros to rejoin the living and might be a help all of their people who had endured so much; but it never seemed appropriate to put on a ‘feast’ at a festival day while faring was so meagre for everyone.

One rainy night, years on, Maglor brought a cup of wine to Maedhros, sitting beside the hearth in their small home that was more pavilion than house. Maedhros glanced at the horn cup, pulled a face, and shook his head. 

“Go on,” Maglor coaxed. “It’s warm, spiced, and honeyed. It won’t taste so sour.”

Maedhros grunted but reluctantly accepted the warm wine. “Never thought I’d miss the ‘comforts’ of Himring,” he grumbled.

“They never exactly grew on me in the first place,” Maglor said, pulling up a chair. “It’s Tirion I miss.”

“I know, brother,” Maedhros murmured.

They were quiet for a while, drinking wine that had to be over-sweetened even to be rendered marginally potable. 

“I’ve heard that Itarillë’s son has wed the daughter of Dior,” Maglor said at length. 

Maedhros said nothing at first, then turned and looked at Maglor. “Do they permit infants to wed now? They cannot be a quarter of a century yet!”

“Neither are fully Elven,” Maglor shrugged.

“And so haven’t such rules of courtship,” Maedhros muttered. An old tightness slowly began to curl around his throat and he clenched his eyes and teeth to stave off the pain. 

Maglor sighed. “I know that wine isn’t very good at all. Perhaps I can find something else -”

“It isn’t the wine, Laurë,” Maedhros whispered. “It is jealousy. I never told you of this, but… when last we met at Sirion, planning for the strike against Angband, Káno all but begged me to join with him before we went to battle. He said he did not want to go to his death not having known what it was to make our two fëar one. But I wouldn’t. I said that we’d already contravened so many of our laws and ways and that we _had_ to keep that pure, if nothing else. I begged him to wait until we’d prevailed at last, and he said he would wait until the day he died. I think he knew, maybe through some foresight, that he was not to survive. And I’ve carried those words with me since the day I found him on that field, cloven and beaten into the mud. Of all the wounds I’ve borne, Laurë, that one will never heal.”

Maglor lowered his head sadly. “’I’m sorry’ sounds so inadequate…,” he said softly. “I know how you loved one another, though, and I saw how always something would arise to come between you in one way or another. I don’t know why it should have been so… but that fortune has always shunned our family where love is concerned.”

“And in so many new and unique ways,” Maedhros said. “But I know that you always did what you could for us, keeping our secrets, buying us time together. I shall never forget that, brother.”

“Just remember it the next time I bring you some truly terrible wine,” Maglor said, leaning against Maedhros’s shoulder. 

“I’m not entirely certain that’s playing fair,” Maedhros smirked, leaning back.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next year, dreams grew frequent for the three brothers. Amrod’s dreams of fire and smoke had him waking in panic many nights and refusing to light his hearth at all, even on the coldest nights. Maglor dreamed more often of Morilotë than he had since leaving the West. Maedhros’s dreams were by turns terrible reminders of the tortures of Angband and haunting memories of Fingon’s songs and gentle caresses. The brothers didn’t speak much about their dreams but they each saw in one another a remoteness and inwardness that hadn’t been there before.

As their dreams became more and more frequent and consuming, often interposing for long intervals even as they were waking and at some other task, they began to come, individually, to the conclusion that these dreams were due to the unreclaimed Silmarils. Three brothers, three jewels, and one dreadful oath in the name of Eru Ilúvatar that would see them damned to eternal darkness if they failed. 

The weight of their former forbearance was growing overwhelming. And so Maedhros decided the send an appeal to reason and peacefulness to the Lord of the Havens, Turgon’s grandson Eärendil. Maedhros even went so far as to plead in the name of Fingon, whom he “had loved more than all”, for the return of the jewel and no further hostilities between their people. Earendil was not at home, though, but away at sea, and Elwing’s reply refused to turn over the heirloom of her father and grandparents.

Despite Maedhros’s deep contrition for the loss of her brothers and regret of the atrocity in Menegroth, that retort got under his skin and woke a fire in him that had long been dormant. His people had suffered much more and for a longer time than those of the Sindar and Maedhros began to feel genuinely offended. Time and again the Noldor had put themselves between the Sindar and Morgoth, and their losses had been more than devastating. Their measured and civil requests for recompense in the form of their father’s creation were repeatedly ignored or coldly refused. Maedhros’s long patience and remorse were then swiftly overtaken by his indignation and he called for all of the warriors left to them to arm themselves to march on the Havens of Sirion, where they would make one final suit for a peaceful resolution.

No such resolution was to be reached when the lady of the land, openly wearing the Nauglamír and looking down from the city walls at the sons of Fëanor, replied only “No,” when Maedhros begged her to return the jewel that had been stolen by Morgoth Bauglir in the first place.

It didn’t take much for the Noldor to pull down the gates and pour into the city and fight their way through, pushing ever toward the Lord’s House and the high guard who were appointed to defend their Lady and the jewel at all costs. At the point that some of the Noldor broke through the guard and into the house, some of their warriors began to hold back as the streets of the haven ran red and the air was choked with screams. Some even turned against their own and began fighting to defend the Havens. 

So it was that Amrod fell to a blow delivered by one wearing his own sigil just as Maedhros and Maglor were searching the house room to room. When they came upon one another in a corridor, they both wore the same haunted expression that came with the knowledge that they were now the last of their family (but for their nephew who had long ago severed ties with his bloodline). 

“She’s not in this house,” Maedhros said lowly, “it’s not here.”

Maglor shook his head and went to a window in the nearest room, a library, looking at the slaughter in the streets below and beginning to feel sick. “They’ve run out of the refugees of every other battle,” he murmured hollowly, “for our people are now turning on one another….”

Just then there was a tiny sound, like a whimper cut short, from a cupboard beside a hearth, and the sound of a hiss no louder than the rustle of a mouse in a woodpile. Maedhros and Maglor looked at one another for a long moment. The cupboard was very small, meant only for keeping fire stokers and tongs along with firewood, and it seemed unlikely that a grown woman as tall as Dior’s daughter had appeared upon the ramparts could fit inside such a space.

Maglor sheathed his sword and glanced between Maedhros and the door. Maedhros nodded and moved silently to cover the exit as Maglor moved closer to the cupboard. Slowly, Maglor eased open the cupboard door. He was only just quick enough to keep from losing an eye to the iron stoker wielded by a young boy. 

“Easy!” Maglor said softly, but keeping a firm grasp on the stoker. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

“You hurt our naneth!” cried another, the mirror image of the first, bursting out of the cupboard with a pair of tongs and getting in a good whack to Maglor’s arm. “Where is she?!”

Maedhros immediately sheathed his sword and knelt, showing his empty hand to the children. “What my brother says is true, we are not going to hurt you. I don’t know who your naneth is, but if she’s been hurt, I am truly sorry. We’ll find her care if we can.”

Maglor, who had also knelt, placating, looked closely at the two boys and noted that they both wore a sigil that was hastily concealed with a smear of ashes. In silent speech Maglor directed his thoughts toward Maedhros: “These are their sons….”

Maedhros bit back a gasp as he realized what his brother meant. 

“Why should we believe you?” demanded the one still trying to wrest the stoker from Maglor.

“Because we swear it in the name of Eru Ilúvatar,” Maglor said gravely, letting go of the stoker. “If you come with us, you will not be harmed. We will see to it.”

For a moment, Maedhros stared at Maglor. Had his brother really just laid another unbreakable oath upon them when such a thing was the very cause of all of the death and suffering they’d already endured? Looking at the two terrified but undaunted boys, though, Maedhros thought that perhaps keeping them safe might do something to atone for everything else their father’s horrible Oath had produced. 

Maedhros nodded. “We will keep you safe, we swear this.”

The twins looked at one another for a moment before the one with the tongs cried out, “No! Where’s nana?!” as he charged Maedhros and struck him with the tongs.

“I don’t know!” Maedhros insisted, shielding himself against the child’s onslaught but not attempting to restrain him.

Just then there was a brilliant flare of light from outside and the children ran to the window to see their mother upon the edge of the headland cliff, the great jewel in her necklace bright as flame. As a soldier in the same livery as Maglor scrambled up the hill toward her, Elwing looked back at the havens for a moment, then turned toward the sea and cast herself into the breaking waves far below. The children screamed out and Maedhros’s head hung low and heavy upon his shoulders and Maglor wept.

Neither Maglor nor Maedhros said or did anything then for a long while until the fighting outside appeared to have ended. The children sat under the window, clinging to one another, having spent all of their tears. 

Eventually, Maedhros rose slowly. “We cannot stay here…,” he said quietly.

Maglor shook his head in agreement, then knelt down in front of the twins and held out his hand, saying, “Please come with us, we _will_ keep you safe.”

Slowly, one boy reached out hesitantly. 

“No, Elrond!” cried the other, grasping his brother’s arm.

“They swore it, Elros,” Elrond whispered, “by Eru. They cannot break that, not ever!”

Elros just stared at a bloodstain on Maglor’s tunic and whimpered, “But, nana….”

Maglor carefully stood up and backed away a few steps before removing his sword belt, dropping his bracers, and taking off his tunic before kneeling again.

“If we stay here, we’ll be alone,” Elrond begged his brother. “We have to go with them.”

“Our adar will come back!” Elros insisted.

Elrond looked distant for a moment before saying, “Not for a long time. And when he does return, he will not stay…. Come on, Ros, _please_? I’m frightened to stay here anymore.”

Elros looked at his brother but slowly let go of his arm. Elrond nodded and then reached out for Maglor’s hand. Maglor smiled and said gently, “There now. My brother is correct, we do need to leave quickly, but first let’s get your cloaks. I think it may rain soon. Your names are Elrond and Elros?”

“Elros and Elrond,” Elros said petulantly. “ _I’m_ the elder, by nine minutes.”

Maglor nodded seriously. “My name is Maglor, my brother Maedhros, and he’s the elder by some years,” purposely using their Sindarin names. “We had twin brothers, too,” he said, pausing for a moment as he realized that the past tense was so only recently accurate. “Promise you will correct me when I get your names wrong? For I often did with the Ambarussa who were our brothers.”

Maedhros waited until Maglor and the twins had left the room before going to the window and looking west into the evening sky. A bright light could be seen over the sea, too low to be a star and moving swiftly westward. That jewel would now forever be beyond their reach, and in some ways Maedhros was glad of it. But still two remained, embedded in the crown of Morgoth. Maedhros couldn’t help thinking that only the utter destruction of everything would see those regained, and he wondered if the eternal darkness accorded to an oath-breaker could possibly be worse.

Upon the walls of the library were hung fair tapestries, portraits of the former kings of the Noldor. This had to be Eärendil’s personal enclave, then. Maedhros walked up to one that hung between the depiction of Fingolfin’s single-combat against Morgoth and Turgon in his hidden city. At the image of those gold-twined plaits, tears rose up so suddenly Maedhros was powerless to check them. 

“Would you forgive me?” he whispered raggedly, then reached up and brought the tapestry down, rolling it up quickly and tucking it into his belt.

* * *

Beleriand was then overrun as never before. Those Elves who were left had either fled to Balar in the care of Orodreth’s son, King Gil-galad, or fared as they might, hiding themselves in the forests of Ossiriand as did the Sons of Fëanor. 

Maedhros began to fear what his brother’s vow would truly entail. He knew nothing of raising children, and given how a rather high percentage of his younger brothers had turned out, he wasn’t at all certain that he should ever be appointed the guardian of a young person. What he was certain of, moreover, was the privation of their meagre camp. Despite their numerous losses, time and again, bringing two growing boys into their fold could be considered imprudent.

Maglor, however, was clearly a natural at this foster-parenting endeavor. It took somewhat more time to truly win over Elros than it had Elrond, but the day Maedhros had heard Elros excitedly call Maglor “ada”, asking him to come look at tadpoles in a creek, Maedhros knew they’d done at least one thing right in vowing to safeguard the children.

One day, Maedhros was helping Elrond sharpen his short knife when Elrond looked up at the pavilion wall and asked Maedhros why he’d chosen to take one of the tapestries from the library in Sirion.

Maedhros glanced up at the weaving and said, “Do you not know?”

Elrond shook his head, but ventured, “A trophy?”

Maedhros’s shoulders dropped very slightly. “No. What do you know of Fingon?” he asked, the Sindarin name strange to his tongue.

Elrond shrugged. “He was my great-uncle. He was slain in a terrible battle to the north, and that’s when my great-grandfather became king.”

Maedhros sighed deeply and muttered, “Your education is sorely lacking, Elfling. Fingon was the most valiant Elf who ever walked these lands, and I loved him with all my heart. I will tell you of him, if you would hear it.”

Elrond nodded and moved to sit beside the fire as Maedhros recited the epitaph he’d written for Fingon during the days of his mute mourning:

" _Of all the children of Finwë he is justly most renowned: for his valour was as a fire and yet as steadfast as the hills of stone; wise he was and skilled in voice and hand; truth and justice he loved and bore good will to all, both Elves and Men, hating Morgoth only; he sought not his own, neither power nor glory, and death was his reward_."

* * *

It was astonishing how quickly Elrond and Elros grew from children into young adults. It was far too fast for Maglor’s liking, and he’d already seen how the boys’ portion of mortal blood made them different. When winters were hard in the camp, the boys required heavier garments, warmer fires, and a greater share of rations to protect them from illness that was never a threat to the fully-Elven. It wasn’t long before the twins were training to hunt and fight, but Maglor insisted that they be trained in healing as well – if they might not heal as well and quickly as Eldar, they needed to be able to care for one another. 

As Elrond and Elros became more independent, Maedhros began falling back into his more taciturn moods more frequently. While their foster sons were growing day by day, Maedhros and Maglor were keeping sharp ears tuned to any news that came. Maedhros despaired of word that the whole of Beleriand was now the province of Morgoth’s forces, save only the rivers of Ossiriand – and the Laiquendi seemed to have little intention of ever coming out from their elm-woods to make a stand against the Enemy. 

He thought many times of trying to get word to Balar and Gil-galad, to implore them to join forces and establish a place of strength on the land for their people once again. Every time he sat down to compose a plea, though, memories of every terrible thing he’d had a hand in flooded and overwhelmed him. More and more, his thoughts centered on what they could ever do to find a way to get the remaining Silmarils back, to fulfill the Oath, and… dared he even think it… be permitted to return to Valinor to await the day his beloved Valiant One was rehoused and returned. 

Then came the day when it was learned that a host of under the banner of Finarfin had landed at Eglarest, along with legions of Vanyar. Far from being jubilant at the long-awaited salvation, Maedhros was angry. So, he thought, it had taken the return of one of their hallowed jewels before the Powers would assent to send aid to those who had been facing Morgoth to losses unfathomable for centuries? Then they could surely proceed without further aid and sacrifice from the Fëanorions, for Maedhros refused to endanger anyone else for the cause of the jewels ever again.

But the war raged on for years and seemed that it would consume all, even those who did not march to battle. All of the north was ablaze with the evil of Morgoth and fear ran rampant that everything would fall ere long. Maglor, particularly, felt a keen dread and heartsickness about the future and eventually his fears overruled him and he took Maedhros aside. 

“I think I no longer know hope, Russo,” Maglor said with rawness. “My heart tells me that this Host of the West cannot but prevail, but at what cost?”

Maedhros said nothing, knowing that Maglor was coming to point but needed his own time to get to it.

After a long few moments, Maglor bowed his head and said quietly, “We swore to protect them. But we cannot do that if we encourage them to remain here with us. I begin to fear, Russo… what can we offer now but the curse of our Doom? They must, I think, go to Balar.”

Maedhros sighed, seeing too well how it pained his brother to even consider sending away the boys he’d come to love as if they were his own true-born sons. “I know it hardly seems it to us, but they _are_ full-grown now. I think they have to make that decision for themselves, and by so, that is one oath that can only be held fulfilled.”

“And if they elect to remain with us?” Maglor said, both worriedly and hopefully.

“We’ve protected them, Laurë, not _sheltered_ them. They know as well as any how we ended up here. They will know and understand the risks of their options. They’re strong, brave, and wise, brother, and we must afford them the respect of giving them the choice.”

Maglor looked disappointed. “I’d rather thought you might dissuade me and say, ‘Of course they must stay by the word of our oath’.”

Maedhros just clasped Maglor’s shoulder sympathetically. It was several weeks before Maglor worked up the nerve to speak with the twins about his concerns – and weeks more as Elrond and Elros debated their course. When at last they came to their foster-fathers, they appeared as yet undecided. Elros, it seemed, was more inclined to go onward to new horizons, while Elrond was hesitant and would have stayed in Maglor and Maedhros’s camp – but neither was willing to part with his brother, either.

In the end, it came down to Elrond’s one question – “If we go to Balar, will we be a benefit to them?”

Maglor’s immediate impulse was to say that they were as much a help in their camp as they would be anywhere, but he knew that would not advance his goal of seeing them distanced from the Doom of Mandos. And so Maglor simply said, proudly, “I know you will.”

With that, Elrond decided to concur with his brother and make their way to the island where the refugees of Sirion were sheltered by King Gil-galad. When they had made ready to depart, the farewells were bitter for Elrond and Elros and the Elves who had been fathers to them in ways their own father never had.

* * *

Though it was what Maglor knew in his heart was necessary, the departure of the twins was profoundly difficult for him and left Maglor wearier than ever. As war began to push eastward, it seemed that wherever the hosts of Valinor and Morgoth clashed, the land itself was both thrust up and cast down, becoming unrecognizable and, moreover, uninhabitable. The camp of Maedhros and Maglor was constantly pushed further east because the rending of the land in so many places saw the sea rushing in as land was sundered.

While Maglor grew wearier, Maedhros grew grimmer and more fey than Maglor had ever seen him. Maedhros had fallen to isolating himself, from his personal guard and even from Maglor. He would spend hours into days just staring at the woven portrait of Fingon and grasping that gold ribbon which was growing tattered and tarnished. Maedhros took to wearing his armour almost constantly, cleaning his sword obsessively, and poring over battle plans. Maglor began to fear for his brother’s intentions, as well as his wits.

Then came word of the battle upon the ruin of Anfauglith and that Eärendil in his ship aloft, bearing the Silmaril, had slain the mightiest of the dragons and cast it down, destroying Thangorodrim, and the Enemy had been captured and the remaining Silmarils taken by the Herald of Manwë. With it came a summons for the Elves to join the host of Valinor and return to the west.

And Maedhros returned a refusal to depart Middle Earth and a demand that Eonwë return their property to them, though he had no expectation of capitulation to that petition and readied himself for a stand to rival Fingolfin’s single combat against Morgoth. 

The demand was, as predicted, refused and Eonwe countered with a charge that Maedhros and Maglor must both return to the West and face judgment for all the deeds of the Sons of Fëanor even from the kinslaying at Alqualondë. At that, Maglor’s battered heart longed that they should throw themselves on the mercy of the Valar that they might see an end to their days of misery.

Maedhros’s gaze was haunted and flat, though, as he shook his head. “Mercy, brother? For the likes of us? And what shall we do, then – go to the Lords and speak of our repentance for holding to our oath, but yet purpose to fulfill it? That sort of repentance sounds hollow at best and patently false. Should we have to make war upon all of the Valar for our father’s jewels, instead of just one? Well, you saw how well we managed that – and how well war against our own kind went for us!”

“Russo,” Maglor pleaded, reaching out and hoping to break through his brother’s feyness, “if our very claim to the jewels be rendered null by those atrocities, then surely so our oath cannot be -”

Maedhros shook Maglor’s hand from his arm, though, saying, “We swore not in names of the Powers but in the name of Ilúvatar! They have no authority to release us, even as our father knew they would not. No, Makalaurë, we quit our oath at the peril of the eternal darkness to which the Enemy himself is now consigned!”

“Shall we not come to the same end even if we recover the jewels against the will of the Lords? Might we not mitigate our burden if we yield?” Maglor said tiredly.

For a moment then, Maedhros’s gaze cleared and Maglor saw the profundity of his brother’s fear. “If we voluntarily break or fail our oath for the sake of anything, Everlasting Darkness is a certainty for us. Contravening the will of the Powers – who are not supposed to impose their wills upon us – at least leaves us the chance, however poor, for negotiation of our doom. Makalaurë… I think there is no other chance at all for us to ever see our beloved ones again.” Maedhros closed his eyes then and seemed to struggle against himself. “If I could but see him one last time… I would face their judgment, whatever it be, willingly,” he whispered roughly. “Please, Laurë, help me at last in this?”

At that Maglor sighed and reached out to hold Maedhros close, knowing that nothing his brother could have endured in Angband could ever have come close to the possible torment of being withheld forever from Fingon. “Aye, Russo… I will help you,” Maglor resigned.

* * *

It was one of the few nights that had not seen rain when Maedhros and Maglor arrived alone at the camp of the Host of Valinor. They kept their hoods up and cloaks drawn close about them that they might avoid being recognized. In the centre of the camp was a small tent, heavily guarded so that they had no doubt of what was kept inside. It would not have been possible to sneak into the tent and be away peacefully. Nor did they imagine that they could talk their way into the provisional sanctum and slip the jewels into a pocket without anyone’s notice. Deception would not aid them, not against Vanyan guards known well for their mental prowess. Maedhros drew his sword carefully and calculated the quickest and quietest way to overpower the guards before silently communicating his plan to Maglor. 

With a long look and a soundless sigh, Maglor clasped Maedhros’s handless arm, pulled him into a tight hug, and said through silent speech, “I love you, brother,” knowing this might be the end of either or both of them. 

Seven slit throats later, they were inside the tent where sat two exquisitely fashioned boxes upon a pedestal. Wasting no time, each grabbed a chest and made to take the fastest route out of the camp. To their dismay, but certainly not surprise, they weren’t halfway to the palisade before well-armed warriors appeared from every tent, cutting off all avenues of escape and closing in upon the brothers.

“We die not oathbreakers,” Maedhros murmured to Maglor at his back, “if nothing else. Fight well, little brother.”

Maglor had just raised his sword defensively when a clear, commanding voice ordered all soldiers to stand down. The multitude surrounding them parted and before them came an impossibly tall, gleaming Maia saying that the slaying of a kinslayer was still not permissible by any. Then Eonwë ordered the way to the gates cleared and said, “You may yield yet, Sons of Fëanor, or you may flee and none under my command will assail you.”

Maglor started to turn to Maedhros to implore him one last time to let the jewels go West now that they had finally fulfilled their father’s cursed oath, but Maedhros sheathed his sword, grasped Maglor’s arm and pulled him to get out of the camp with all speed. For days thereafter, Maedhros and Maglor hurried as far from the camp as they could go, heedless of direction. 

Finally, they came to the edge of a woodland and decided to shelter there a while. They slept long, but fitfully, the casks containing the jewels kept close between them. One morning, Maglor woke to a bright light, though the light of Anor had yet to penetrate the dense trees about them. Maedhros sat beside him, one of the casks unlidded and the pure mingled light of Telperion and Laurelin gently illuminating all.

“This is what we’ve fought and suffered and lost _so_ much for,” Maedhros said softly as Maglor sat up. 

Before Maglor could wonder aloud if it had been worth it, Maedhros reached out to take the jewel from its rich bed of velvet. Withdrawing it, Maedhros held the Silmaril in his hand for a moment, curling his fingers around it, when suddenly a blinding pain shot up his arm and his hand felt scorched as if by the hot irons of Angband used to sear his flesh in torment. Maedhros dropped the jewel at once and Maglor swiftly caught it to return to the box before checking what had hurt Maedhros. Before he could carefully replace the jewel, though, Maglor gave a shout of pain as his flesh, too, felt burned by the hallowed crystal. Together, the brothers sat staring at the jewel cases in fear and anguish for a long time.

“We cannot even touch these, the things to which we have sacrificed everything but our own lives,” Maedhros murmured, deep in heavy despair. 

Maglor held his brother close and said quietly, “But you were correct, and we did not break our oath, at the least.”

Maedhros shook his head, though. “Don’t you see, brother? It was you who was correct, and not I. Now I know that our oath was invalid all along. Everything we did in its name was an evil, even if we thought it good and right and just, whether we killed or relented mattered not. It was done _because_ of an unimaginable evil. We’ve made but fair-seeming orcs of ourselves. There is nothing for us now….” 

Maedhros sat long, his head bowed low as he wept and regretted nothing so much as that he did not join himself with Fingon when Fingon offered it, that he had forsworn his last chance to bind his fëa to that of the one he loved, that his grief might have taken him to death after that awful day upon Anfauglith. No jewel and no oath could have been worth Fingon’s love, and now Maedhros knew that what he had foolishly allowed himself to become, tarnished and ruined and… evil, rendered him forever unfit to return to the West and forever unworthy to even look upon his beautiful, valiant Findekáno again. Maedhros laid himself upon the ground, utterly broken, and sobbed ceaselessly. 

That night, after Maglor’s own tears had given him the brief respite of sleep, Maedhros carefully disentangled himself from Maglor’s hold and took one of the boxes under his arm. He gently kissed Maglor’s forehead and whispered his love and an apology for what he now intended to do. 

Maedhros then fled the wood, hoping to get as far as he could before Maglor woke to find him and a Silmaril gone. After three days, in which he had not felt any sense of his brother pursing him, he found what he’d known would be there – cracks in the fabric of the earth that ran north of Ered Luin in Eriador in the same line that they had in Beleriand. 

There, like the peaks of Thangorodrim which fumed and sent forth rives of fire, Maedhros scaled a slope which culminated in a caldera, wide and deep and almost too hot to even climb. Below, inside the open mountain, bubbled the molten earth. Maedhros opened the box that housed the Silmaril which was his inheritance and looked long upon it, then into the glowing chasm. Then he raised his eyes to the dark skies above and murmured through tears of distress and pain and fear and relief and hatred and love, “It is not enough….”

Then he took the jewel out of the case and dropped the box down the mountainside, forcing himself to endure the burning in his hand as he said, “May it be that when all is unmade, I may at last be forgiven and remade and never again will I hold anything more dear or worthy or noble than pure and valiant love. But now, at the last, I shall no longer know pain and torment….”

And with that, Maedhros stepped off the precipice and let himself fall into the fiery chasm, a Silmaril in his only hand and a worn and frayed golden ribbon wrapped about his only wrist.


End file.
